


Break

by ChloeWinchester



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Underage Kissing, episode 3.14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9539195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWinchester/pseuds/ChloeWinchester
Summary: After his grueling ordeal with Jerome, Bruce attempts to put on a brave face and carry on. But a boy can only take so much before he breaks.





	

Alfred was waiting for Bruce to do...something. He wouldn’t talk to him about what he saw, what was done to him, all he’d explained was an understandable, primal urge to beat Jerome to death and do Gotham a favor. Alfred himself likely would have murdered the little twat ,no fucking questions asked, simply for harming Bruce the first time, let alone this. Half of the police force would have likely done the same. He thought for sure Jim Gordon would slay the monster, as his behavior had been mostly dictated by violent urges as of...well, forever, he supposed. No, the madman lived, and Bruce was left holding the pieces of this shattered night. 

He wouldn’t push him, he knew better. Trying to pry feelings out of young Master Wayne was a bit like trying to empty a swimming pool with a thimble: pointless, a bit frustrating and understandably a ridiculous endeavor to begin with. He would have to wait for Bruce to come to him with it, or let him work out his feelings a different way. Practicing and training seemed to be the way this time, and he was simply waiting in the gym for him. 

The soft lighting glittered in the boy’s dark hair, his eyes far away from this room, this house, a tremor in his busted knuckles. He looked about as alright as he did running out of that funhouse, bolting to him and hugging him so tight he nearly knocked him over. 

The relief he’d felt in that moment, holding him, solid, in one piece and terribly shaken up, had nearly been enough to floor him too. They stood there for some time, clinging to each other, not saying a word. Bruce was trembling head to toe, hiding in the slope of his shoulder, trying to fold into him as well as himself and disappear. Alfred said nothing. He held him, shushed him, gently smoothed his hair until Bruce pulled away and asked to go home. 

“Alfred?” 

He brought himself out of his daze, smiling a little. “Ready, Master Wayne?” He said pleasantly, finding no sign of amusement or even neutrality in the boy’s features. 

He knew this mask of stone he put on was a dam keeping everything back, contained in his tired mind and lithe frame. He was too young to know these feelings. Too young to see the world  this cruel, to be hurt this way. His eyes had aged so much, his shoulders weighed with burdens he shouldn’t have to carry. Bruce could only bend so much before he broke. 

Bruce nodded in response, his gloves on, brow pinched just a little. Internally telling himself to do this and occupy his time and likely some of the ‘be a man’ rhetoric his father instilled. 

Alfred readied himself as well, stepping closer to him so they could begin, his stance set, pads up. “Whenever you’re ready,” he nodded. 

Bruce stepped into a brittle stance, expression unsure, hands attempting to hold their stillness and get through this. He wanted to make Alfred proud, keep him proud. To make up for the sight he’d been earlier tonight, the pathetic, helpless little waif bound, painted and exposed in a harsh light while the means of his death was loaded in front of him. Alfred saw that. Alfred saw how weak he really was and still said those things about being proud of how strong he was and who he’d become. He didn’t know anything, he didn’t see him properly, he didn’t see he was wasting his time trying to make him into someone strong. He was still the weak little boy shoving his hand over candles and burning himself to feel something other than agonizing grief. 

Yet again because of his own shortcomings Alfred had almost died. His entire world and all he possessed within it had nearly been taken again and it was all his fault. Alfred had been shot, stabbed, beaten, tossed through a window, threatened, kidnapped and drugged because of him. Because of his weakness. Even last night, putting himself between Jerome and Alfred, giving him an alternative to killing the both of them, swearing he would see him again… He felt so sure Alfred was gone. 

The light in his life, gone. Because of him. All the tenderness and care, his trust, his selflessness, the encompassing, consuming feeling of his embrace, the safety of his arms and the gentle words pressed into his ear… 

Why couldn’t Alfred see he was nothing but a fuck-up who didn’t deserve any of this?

Without fully processing what he was doing, he lunged with a rumbling shout, throwing his fist into the pad, then the other. And again, and again, as fast as he could, as hard as he could, grunting louder each time until he was almost screaming. No warning given, no sign of when he would stop. Had Alfred been anyone else, had been slower, had been anyone else he would’ve had a few teeth knocked loose. 

“Oi, hey, take it easy, Master Bruce-- Oi!” Bruce hadn’t even aimed that time, he was just throwing fists, chasing each strike and lost in a blind… It wasn’t rage. It was hurt. “Master Wayne, focus-- Look right here, like we-- Bruce!” 

Bruce looked as if he’d flicked his light switch to ‘off’ and left him in the dark. He looked at Alfred, pain etched into his face, his fists still up in first position. He was shaking. Hands, knees, lips, he was shaking everywhere. “I’m sorry,” he croaked out, shoving the gloves off, stumbling through it. “I, I’m--” 

Alfred threw the pads to the ground and closed the distance between them, one hand on Bruce’s cheek, the other easing his last glove off. “It’s okay.” 

The dam broke. 

Bruce fell against him, hiding in his shoulder again and sobbing, clinging to his shirt, knuckles re-opened and bleeding. The hard stone mask fell away and the resilient yet oddly fragile marble beneath was left. Beautiful, soft, tender, and crying. 

“Shh, shh...I know. I know, it’s alright. It’s alright, shh…” 

“A-all those people. He hurt all those people and I couldn’t do anything about it,” he choked. “I watched-watched some of them die, I-I didn’t help!” 

“Bruce you did what you could--” 

“It wasn’t enough!” He bellowed, looking up at him helplessly. “I wasn’t enough, I’m not enough. He made me a clown for a reason; I’m a fucking joke!” 

Standing in the first floor lav, holding his face in a soft palm while he washed the makeup away, watching shame burn in the boy’s face he wished he could take away. “I need you to look at me so I can see you properly, eh?” He said, gently guiding his eyes back up to him. He paused, looking at the sadness in them. The humiliation still knotted in his gut was all right there. 

Alfred softened, holding him still and leaned closer to kiss him, to ease some of that a bit. Bruce chased it for a moment, desperate for real affection and safe touches instead of that maniac-- Then he quickly turned away, remembering what Jerome had smeared all over his mouth. 

“What-what’s wrong?” Alfred frowned, worried. “Did I… I’m sorry, you didn’t want me to and I just…” 

Bruce shook his head but couldn’t look at him, tightening his jaw. Alfred glanced at the paint on his mouth, and how different it was from the white pancake above it. It dawned on him then and he turned Bruce’s chin. 

“Is, is that blood?” He whispered. Bruce nodded, lips trembling now. “A-alright. Alright, here, shh...it’s okay, I got it.” He soaped and warmed the rag again and carefully washed away the blood too, watching the tension ease from Bruce’s face the more it was cleared away. 

“Okay,” he whispered. “Now we can.” Bruce leaned in toward him and Alfred caught his mouth in a gentle, chaste kiss. 

He hadn’t spoken again until he was through patching him up, and now. Now when he was sure his heart had shattered simply from the look on Bruce’s face. 

“No,” he breathed, shaking his head and cupping Bruce’s cheek. “No, you are not a joke. You’re smart. If you’d tried to stop all those people from being hurt or killed he would’ve made sure none of them made it. He would have had all of them killed.” 

“He killed three of them right in front of me,” he croaked, hot tears sliding down his cheeks. “Just...just because. There was so much blood and they were so scared, I--” His voice broke off and he found his solace in Alfred’s chest again, the night hitting him in waves. “What if you were like that, what if you were bloody like that and torn apart and I-I had to find you like that? What if they tortured you and killed you because of me?! It’s my fault, it’s my, my fault I can’t do this, I can’t do anything-!” 

“Bruce!” 

This boy was worried about torture that could have been when clearly he’d gone through a fair bit himself. More than he ever needed to, really, being forced to watch people be hurt, getting a staple-gun to the arm, having his face painted as if he were a doll and utterly terrorized throughout the ordeal. It made his chest ache, knowing how much Bruce cared for him, for people. He glanced at the bandage he placed on his wrist, the cut on his cheek, the exhaustion in his face. Last night had been too much.

Alfred lifted his face again, locking eyes with him. “I swore a long time ago that I would lay down my life for yours. Once you started going after your parents’ killer I knew that it would be all the more dangerous and more likely that that would happen. I’ve been ready for it, I still am. I will always put myself between you and a gun and tonight you...you did the same for me.” 

“It didn’t help!” Bruce cried, pleading with him to just understand. 

“It did,” he pressed. “Oh, Bruce, it did. It mattered. Everything you did tonight mattered. You can’t save everyone, love. You can try, but that’s only gonna break your heart like this.” 

Bruce closed his eyes, his breaths still shaky and shallow as his panic attack continued. “I tried to be strong--” 

“You were.” 

“--I tried to do everything you taught me, but I, I still ended up being a damsel.” 

“You rescued yourself,” he said pointedly, gently wiping his tears away. “You tore bloody staples out of your arm and picked two locks. You hid somewhere you knew, you had a strategy and something close to a plan and you fought like hell to get out of there alive. And you did. You were so brave and you did help so many people. Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t played him like you did tonight. And you won. Good won, Bruce. This,” he pressed his hand over his fluttering heart, “won.” 

“And now I’m, I’m a mess,” he stammered, shutting his eyes. Alfred gently bumped his forehead against his, meeting his swollen eyes when they opened again. 

Bruce felt a calm wash over him, looking into the soft blue of Alfred’s eyes. He felt the arms around him, the warmth against him. Home. Safe. He swallowed thickly, still shaking. 

“Bruce, I’ve told you about the war before. The things I’ve seen and done and had done to me aren’t pretty. Nothing about war ever is, nothing about what I had to do to keep people safe was either. It was hell, and even...even when I had to be brave, when I had to put on a good face to do what I had to do, if you don’t think I had to do exactly what you’re doing right now, you’re out of your mind.” He smiled a little, carding fingers through his hair to ease more tension out of Bruce’s shaking body. 

“You, you did?” 

“We all did,” he chuckled. “We’re human, Bruce. It’s okay to be like this. It’s okay to need someone else, to need comfort, to need care and love. It’s okay to need that from me right now and it doesn’t negate anything I said before. You’re still that brave, brilliant boy from last night that saved my neck. You hear me?” 

Bruce nodded, his breathing slower now. He pressed his hands against Alfred’s chest, feeling the rhythmic beating beneath it, which he then rested his head against so he could hear. 

“There now, I’m here. I’ve got you,” Alfred whispered, rocking him a little. “You really need some sleep, eh?” 

He nodded and closed his eyes, hugging him now in a desperate grip. “We, we have something at Wayne Enterprises that can help those people, right?” He croaked, voice muffled. 

Alfred nodded, lips pressed to the top of his head. “We do. I’ll see that someone cleans up all that mess too, eh?” Bruce nodded again, sniffling. 

“I...I think I need a few days before I, I can train again. I just...I…” 

Alfred squeezed him lightly to reassure him and quiet him. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I understand. You tell me when you’re ready, alright? It’s alright if you need some time. Hell, I need some time.” 

Bruce peeked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. Alfred smiled back and continued to hold him. 

“One, one more thing, Alfred,” Bruce whispered, head on his shoulder. 

“Anything, Master Bruce,” he assured.

“Never, ever take me to the circus again,” he rasped, hiding his face more. “Ever.” 

Alfred let out something of a laugh, slowly rubbing his back. “Of course, Master Bruce. I did say I didn’t like clowns, didn’t I?” 


End file.
